


Gravity

by Irrelevancy



Category: One Piece
Genre: BDSM, Banter, Choking, Dildos, Fingerfucking, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Predicament Bondage, Rope Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:47:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21647803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrelevancy/pseuds/Irrelevancy
Summary: “Now you must tell me if you’re experiencing any pain, okay?”Marco, ever the master of multitasking, combined his love of irony and complete disdain for Shanks by punctuating his instruction with a harsh yank of rope, biting the fibers into Shanks’ shins.
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco
Comments: 21
Kudos: 50





	Gravity

**Author's Note:**

> mana, your gift to me sdjnfksdjfnsdk

“Now you must tell me if you’re experiencing any pain, okay?” Marco, ever the master of multitasking, combined his love of irony and complete disdain for Shanks by punctuating his instruction with a harsh yank of rope, biting the fibers into Shanks’ shins. “I’m a doctor after all. I care about these things.”

“Oh no,” Shanks laughed breathlessly, testing all of his binds now. There was the requisite amount of give around his legs, strapped wide to the sides of a chair, but not much else. Had Shanks’ left arm been still attached, Marco might’ve settled for knots around the wrists, elbows bent over the sides of the chair back. Instead, an intricate web of ropes lashed his entire torso straight and immobile. Marco hadn’t even taken off Shanks’ shirt, the beer-soaked thing sticking uncomfortably to Shanks’ skin and _pulling_ with the rope. “No pain at all.”

“Good,” Marco’s lips said, while his eyes said, _too bad_. _Fuck_ did Shanks love the glow of Marco’s glare, the molten copper of it. He longed to see the man poured and shaped and burning around him. The arch of Marco’s frown though, was imperviously cool. “So are you ready to admit you’re wrong now?”

“Aw, you’re not still mad about that?”

While he’d left the shirt, Marco had been quite unabashed in stripping Shanks of his pants. The moment Shanks closed the racket of the party out behind him, Marco had swooped in, truly bird of prey-like, all targeted and shredding talons. Everything had been ready, as per Marco’s wont. All the set up needed had been Shanks.

The set up in question: a chair, coils of rope, a bottle of oil, and that wicked toy of unforgiving alloy. _That’s supposed to be my gift to you_ , Shanks had gasped, when Marco’d set him down on it with an insistent push. _So I get to use it how I like_ , Marco had replied.

_Are you talking about me or the toy?_

Shanks had wanted nothing more than to _lick_ the answering cock of Marco’s chin, coy as anything.

_Yes._

Another point to Marco’s resourcefulness, he’d found a way to secure the toy to the chair—permanently, was Shanks’ suspect. No matter how much he squirmed and writhed and squeezed, it refused to detach. And that was before the ropes, so now Shanks was doubly fucked.

Or—not quite yet. Not in the way he’d been teasing, goading, _bullying_ for all night. Marco still had that vein in prominent relief on the side of his neck.

“You’re the one who said we should practice better communication,” Shanks pointed out. The wickedness of the toy was in its tapers, the way it slinked up, slim and easy as anything, but then _filled_. Smooth all around, but not without a purposeful protrusion, lined up so neatly where Shanks loved that pressure the most. “I’m communicating to you what I want and need.”

“You’re harassing me in front of our crews,” was Marco’s growled correction. “How many times do I have to tell you I hate that—”

“At least,” Shanks interrupted, skipping through the script, “once more.”

They both knew Marco didn’t hate it the same way he hated Shanks’ bawdy invitations to join his crew, but he certainly didn’t love it the same way he loved Shanks strapped down, bruised, and breathless. Shanks’ public displays of affection (or as Marco called it, public indecency) were as effective as a blown breath across near-black embers—sometimes, only with enough fuel and willpower, it caught.

Ah but Marco was nothing but fuel and willpower; Shanks felt both hot as anything, licks of charring pain across his skin. He delighted in being the one creature hurt by the phoenix’s flames, found being the man outside the myth perfectly delectable.

So Marco scorched down at him with a hooking smirk.

“Fine,” he said in a deep-ocean tone, “then let’s communicate. With words, yoi. What is it that you want?”

“Oh I’ll use my mouth,” Shanks declared, with a playful nip at Marco’s thumb positioned right by the corner of his lips, “but not for words. You _know_ what I want.”

What he’d been positively salivating for, on the deck with the raging party, when Marco had gotten some cream from the dessert on his hands and Shanks—Well. He’d met Marco’s glowering eyes over the bumps of Marco’s knuckles. And even still he’d given the fingers on his tongue a couple more unrepentant sucks.

(That’s when Marco made his excuses and left the party, to, hm, get everything ready.)

Shanks licked his lips and opened his mouth, tongue tip dragging up and down on the pad of Marco’s thumb. He envisioned Marco liquidating—Shanks was nothing if not good at finding the melting points of men. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s drawn Marco in, found between them the degree of mutual heat that convinced Marco to _bend_. He imagined Marco’s hand, bitter but eager, straying to that sky-blue sash (a sartorial accoutrement with a _delightful_ variety of applications, but not tonight), dipping into pants and finally _feeding_ Shanks that which he hungered for.

Except—Marco was, all of a sudden, feeding him something else instead.

Three fingers, long and tender with eternally renewing dermis. Like he was wiping skin salt across Shanks’ tongue, Marco pressed all over the inside of Shanks’ mouth. Almost crude, almost inspecting. Then, the pressure increased, flattening on the tongue, before beginning to glide its way upwards.

Shanks kept down his gag reflex as best he could. Liquids pooled regardless: tears in his eyes, saliva in his cheeks. Just when he thought they’d found his limit, that all of the night’s drink and food was going to find its way unsexily back into view, Marco’s fingers retreated.

Hit the center divot of Shanks’ tongue. Started back up again.

A facsimile, Shanks realized, of the mouthfucking he truly wanted. Yes, there was the pressure—but distributed across three columns was _different_ from the single hefty weight of Marco’s erection. Yes, there was the salt—but the working taste of hands was _not_ the musk of sweat and other liquids. There was also the fact that like this, Shanks didn’t even get the satisfaction of Marco’s spilling pleasure, nothing to lord over Marco for giving in to him. This was Marco’s _punishment_ for him, plain and simple.

Shanks gagged on that realization, on Marco’s fingers, and Marco finally flashed teeth.

“Okay,” Marco murmured agreeably, “we’ll use your mouth.”

Shanks felt a little seismic jolt as the bottom of Marco’s sandal hit the seat of the chair between his splayed knees. Then, his whole world _tilted_ —

—of _course_ , Marco had kicked the chair onto its back legs and, through some intricate weaving of his own legs through the chair’s, immobilized it against gravity on both ends. The result was Shanks’ weight slipping down to his hips, his tailbone hitting chair back, and the _toy_ —the fucking _convex point_ that now pushed so much more on Shanks’ front wall from the inside. And then Marco’s _fingers_ gouged further down until Shanks well and truly choked, spittle and tears rolling down the sides of his face. Still Marco fucked his mouth, knuckles heedlessly scraping against teeth, little flickers of flame licking Shanks right back when incisors broke skin. The chair tipped backwards and forwards beneath him in jerky, stomach-flipping little pulses, and the toy filled him. Stilled him. _Mined_ him for all the pleasure it could uncover underneath the wild franticness of the gagging and the drooling and the falling and the melting and the—

—the _coming_ —

—he thought, dimly, he must’ve bitten. The slightest spot of revenge, perhaps, not that Marco was any worse for the wear. Marco had deposited the chair back onto four stable legs while Shanks was still trembling, shocking another stutter of orgasm out of him when the toy adjusted itself inside Shanks once more. Then, with big steady palms, Marco had wiped his face (and neck and collarbones) clean of spit. Brought out a towel to wipe down them both. Settled in front of Shanks, hands braced warmly on Shanks’ bare thighs.

“See?” Marco hummed, every line of him so suffused with satisfaction that Shanks found himself on the verge of giggling. “Would’ve been much nicer for you to have just used your words.”

Shanks was still seated on the toy. The ropes had to come off first—which Marco had started working on with easy fingers. Shanks now had an ambition, for when he finally got to pull off the thing, still loose and aching for a good, thorough fuck. Whatever Marco thought had just been achieved, Shanks was a tenacious man, and he still hadn’t gotten what he was so starved for.

“But who said anything about wanting you nice?”

**Author's Note:**

> (yes that's the potc reference)
> 
> am i just doomed to cycles of abject horniness every other month, is this what kinktober's done to me
> 
> my [tumblr](https://touchmycoat.tumblr.com/) if you want to drop me a prompt skdjfnskladf i take hardcore kink oNLY


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